


Concerto (of fascination and beauty)

by BlueAlmond



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Historical References, Inspired by Music, Light Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 02:56:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20369524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueAlmond/pseuds/BlueAlmond
Summary: Crowley only gets interested in the piano after he sees his angel’s face during a rendition of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 20 in D minor.





	Concerto (of fascination and beauty)

**Author's Note:**

> My electric piano is malfunctioning and I was feeling nostalgic, so this happened. Enjoy!

When Crowley first gets a pianoforte, he simply does it for the aesthetic. It fits well in his place, and no one else in England has one, which is always a good encouragement to get anything. He never thinks to actually play it; he never learned to play the harpsichord and never intended to. The few times he presses the keys are completely accidental, and the sound does not tempt him in the slightest.

He only sees the appeal after he notices the angel’s face, almost a century later, during a rendition of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 20 in D minor. Them being in the same place is merely a coincidence, of course, and several minutes in, Aziraphale still doesn’t notice that Crowley is near, which gives him a chance to watch closely the one thing in the building that is capable of captivating him — although, if he has to be honest, the speed of the pianist’s fingers is impressive enough that his mind registers it despite his seized attention. He likes the music, but he’s liked music for a long time. He never considered making it himself; that, he left for humans, like most art. But the angel’s fascinated expression kicked in his interest, like it had done in the past, with the difference that going for it is slightly easier than it had been before. When he’d entertained the idea of cooking, he’d never had any food at his disposal — just a miracle away, but an unjustifiable one, at that. This time, however, he has an instrument at home. He could try it. He could try to elicit that very same expression on the angel’s face, in the near future.

(He knows that’s just an indulging, baseless thought. Even if he could play something like that, it’s not like he’s going to invite Aziraphale over to his flat for a private concert.)

He sits on the piano stool that night and lets his fingers fall tentatively on one key at a time, experimentally and carefully, unsure of how much force he should use. Then, he tries to press more than one key at once and winces with the unpleasant result. It can’t be too difficult, he thinks stubbornly, to find the right combinations. There are only so many notes. And as it happens, once or twice he manages to make a more than delightful sound — only for him to ruin it by producing an abomination just an instant later. It’s surprisingly complicated, and he finds that humans have outthought him once again. They do that often. The guys downstairs truly should stop underestimating the little creatures.

Eventually he gets bored and decides it’s just a waste of time, but he tries again the following day because it was, against all odds, fairly entertaining. Thus, he sits there at noon, on the piano stool, and tries to reproduce some of the sounds he’s heard throughout the centuries. It isn’t very good, but it is — it is _fun_. And he realizes why so many talented composers have ended up down there. Humans who dedicate their whole lives to things that give them pleasure never seem to qualify for upstairs, for some reason. After a while he deems it a suitable activity to engage in, and he gets himself some books to learn how to play music properly.

Shortly it becomes a pastime, of sorts. Especially when he doesn’t want to think. Music usually helps, but just listening never is as effective as becoming the source. When he doesn’t feel like finishing the paperwork for downstairs, or when the clandestine arrangement with his angel has him doing something that certainly would have horrific consequences if they’re ever discovered, coming back home to let his fingers loose and just focus on what sounds good is the perfect distraction — it’s debauchery. It’s strangely empowering and comforting and _his_, even as he plays someone else’s thoughts. He ignores the little man conquering Europe while he learns first Mozart’s Piano Sonata No. 14 in C minor, and then Beethoven’s “_Quasi una fantasia_”. He’s tempted to visit the latter, but he quickly dismisses the idea. Whatever would he even say to the man? Later, as his condition only worsens and he stops appearing in public, Crowley decides he made the right choice, and resolutely ignores the regret growing in the pit of his stomach. If he locks himself for a week and assaults the poor instrument which until recently had still looked as radiant as the day he first got it, aggressively switching from Opus 111 to the 57 to the 53, mourning for a human soul he never dared to meet like he hasn’t done in a couple of centuries, nobody needs to know.

(In between one and the other, Crowley thinks of Aziraphale. He thinks of the men Beethoven dedicated those sonatas to, and he thinks of what exactly went through his mind as he wrote them. His thoughts don’t go in a straight line, of course. They’re foggy, in between one arpeggio and the other, simply background to the movement of his fingers as he plays from memory.)

He just makes sure not to make that mistake again. He travels more in one decade than he’s done in the last five hundred years, but he has the pleasure of conversing with young minds that he just knows will be remembered — if not for their words or looks, then for their virtuous fingers and their ravishing compositions, and he tells them so. Young Franz doesn’t question it, flimsy Fryderyk tries to be humble but there are gleams of excitement in his eyes whenever he is complimented, and darling Clara just laughs and leans closer to him, gaze deliberately avoiding Robert’s.

Crowley believes that she could do better than him, but he doesn’t tell her so. When she stops composing entirely, he makes a habit of playing her three romances every night, before having some alcohol and visiting his angel when he’s certain no treacherous words will escape and expose the ridiculous sentimentalism that Aziraphale has no business learning about.

(The angel always looks at him oddly during these visits. He probably knows something is wrong, but he doesn’t ask, and Crowley certainly isn’t going to give up that information freely. He’s a demon, after all.)

She’s the last one of the group to die.

He doesn’t play that night; he doesn’t feel like it. Nor the next one. Or the next.

Before he knows it, a couple of years go by and he doesn’t sit on the piano stool a single time. But it doesn’t bother him. It’s just another temporary hobby he moves on from. There’s been many of those in the last six thousand years. He doesn’t dwell on it. He doesn’t spare much of a thought to things ending.

After six thousand years in the mortal world, an immortal being just cannot ignore that all things end eventually. Death is an inherent part of life, and it’s inevitable to get attached to living things. And even those things without a soul have their own expiration date, be it habits, social norms, clothes, governments. Human’ interests and forms of living are as versatile and fleeting as their own existence. And they, the demon and the angel, have learned to cope with it. They acclimate easily to the persistent changes.

But the end of the world, the end of that cycle that’s become so natural to them, that is something they just aren’t ready for. And maybe they never will be. So, perhaps a little desperately, Crowley decides to stop it. He decides that’s his line, that the world is the one thing he’s not willing to give up on.

The world is the one place he can meet with his angel, after all.

(And perhaps, _that_ is the one thing he isn’t willing to give up.)

It takes eleven stressful years, although at the end it feels like it all came down to a matter of days, but the result is one and only. They won. The apocalypse is over. His world didn’t end, and they weren’t annihilated, and Crowley’s just — he’s overwhelmed. Once he’s back at his place, he looks at his plants and the minimalistic style he’s got going on and he almost laughs.

They made it. They stopped one thing —just the one— from ending. He’s so stunned that they made it he can hardly assimilate it.

As he glances around, he notices, just like he noticed back at Aziraphale’s bookshop, that there are a couple of things that didn’t use to be there, before the Apocalypse.

The ones that shock him the most are the books on top of the piano he hasn’t touched in decades. There are piano sheets, of course, but for _Queen_ songs, and he snorts, bemused and slightly offended.

He’s been listening to those songs for years. He’s certain he doesn’t need to read them to play them. _Certain_.

(And maybe he knows there’s false bravado in that statement, which is ridiculous because there’s _no one there_, but he has his pride. And no matter how talented Freddie was, his scores certainly couldn’t be as difficult as Franz’s. They just _couldn’t_.)

He sits down on the dust-covered stool and decides to try his luck with ‘_Don’t Stop Me Now_’. He figures out the first couple of chords, but eventually he screws up and instead of starting over he switches for another song. Then another. And another. When he fucks up in the very first verse of ‘_Somebody to Love_’, he yells in frustration and picks the book up. They’re not too different from what he expected, but he doesn’t throw it away. It could be helpful, after all. Besides, it’s a gift from his godson. He shouldn’t be that ungrateful. So he spends the rest of the day —and night— going through it and testing out how different it is to sing and play at the same time.

(He’s just a little bit weirded out by his own voice. He’s sang in the car before, of course, but it isn’t nearly the same thing.)

It’s not harder and it’s not easier, and it demands his attention just the same, so it really isn’t that strange that he didn’t notice someone was standing beside him until he hears:

“I didn’t know you played,” by a soft, familiar voice.

Crowley wants to, unironically, crawl into a hole and die. Well, not die, but hide until the angel out of the goodness of his heart decides to leave.

“Oh, forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you. Please, continue.”

“You didn’t _startle _me,” Crowley hisses pointlessly, because they both know he did, and he isn’t wearing his sunglasses nor his jacket, so he doesn’t turn around and feels ridiculous, sitting there with terrible posture and the awfully simple sheet for the song still in front of him.

(It’s not simple, and Aziraphale who doesn’t even play probably wouldn’t think anything of it even if it was, but Crowley has his pride and he feels _so small _and_ silly_. Ridiculous, really. ‘_Love of my Life_’ has never been on his top five anyway. His luck is just terrible.)

Then, a horrible thought invades him, and he turns to face the angel because his shock is jut too wide. “How long have you been standing there, anyway?”

“Oh, just a few minutes, my dear, you were already playing that lovely song.”

Crowley swallows hard. “Huh,” he clears his throat. “You should’ve said something sooner, anyway. Why are you here?”

“I was hoping maybe we could have dinner? I understand if you don’t want to, of course. I would much rather stay here, if you want. Is that a new book?”

“Yes. It came with the new world, I think. A gift, from Adam.”

“How thoughtful. Have you played for a long time?”

“Not really, no. Just about two hundred years, give or take. But I hadn’t played much in the last decades.”

“You play beautifully.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Angel.”

Aziraphale purses his lips and stands a little taller.

(He has a tendency to do that when he believes people aren’t taking him seriously. Crowley doesn’t have the heart to tell him that a grown man pouting does not, in fact, look more respectable.)

“It’s not flattery when it’s true. Now, will you keep playing while I stay here and prepare something, or would you rather come with me and dine out?”

There aren’t many things on earth —or anywhere else— that he’d rather do instead of going out with Aziraphale. Playing the piano for him certainly is not one of them. But as he stands up and notices his face fall slightly, his stomach churns. He takes a deep breath and says: “I doubt there’s anything in here you could use to prepare a meal, Angel.”

His angel’s face shines.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that. Just keep playing. I’ll figure something out.”

Crowley sits back down on the piano stool, but he cannot focus on the book in front of him. He’s already read about half of it, and perhaps he could make a decent rendition of a third of those, but they just don’t feel _right_. His fingers itch for something different, his right foot hovers over the right pedal, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s playing a melody he hasn’t heard in over a hundred years.

He had stopped playing concertos long before he stopped playing piano altogether — they were not made for a soloist, and Crowley would always play alone. It was too obvious that something was missing. But there is something special about that one—

(A performance in London. A fascinated angel. A ridiculous motivation that made him stumble into something _beautiful_ and _wonderful _and he’s _missed _it so…!)

—that he just plays and plays and for a while, he forgets why he’s doing it. He can smell the food cooking, of course, but it no longer matters. If he was nervous and on edge at the beginning, worried he may screw up and embarrass himself, in just a few seconds that’s all forgotten. The book was 56 pages long and he isn’t sure he remembers what the other instruments were supposed to be doing, but his fingers and feet know exactly what to do. And they move, and he’s probably moving with them but he doesn’t notice; he simply plays. And he plays. And he plays some more, the three movements with barely an intake of breath in between, and that’s alright. He doesn’t know if it sounds alright —he knows he messed up a couple of triads and skipped an entire section— but it _feels _wonderful and he knows that’s all that matters.

Then it’s over, and it’s almost as if he’s waking up from a long, vivid dream. His angel claps behind him, and he turns reluctantly, awkwardness wrapping around him like a comforting blanket in a warm and sunny day.

“I’ve seen that piece performed live before, back when Mozart was still alive, although he wasn’t the one playing. It was here, in London,” says Aziraphale, looking amazed. “Maybe I’m not being fair to the poor human whose name I can’t even remember, but,” his smile widens for a moment, his eyes never leave Crowley and the intensity there is such that the demon feels the sudden urge to look away before he burns, but he can’t even blink, “even without the flutes and violins, your version is far superior, Crowley.”

“Angel, that’s hardly…”

“Beautifully done,” he adds, shaking his head subtly. “Thank you for playing it for me.” He licks his lips and then glances away quickly to the plates he’s left on the table at some point. “It’s like going back to the late 18th century! But having a private concert, just for me, is…” his eyes twinkle, “simply, marvellous, my dear. I’ve never felt so lucky.”

Crowley snorts. “I don’t know what’s so special about it, but—”

(Lies. He knows exactly what Aziraphale means and half a dozen faces appear behind his eyelids in a mocking reminder that he doesn’t have a single picture of them.)

“—if you liked it so much, then I guess I could play for you again some time.”

“Oh, Crowley. That would be wonderful!”

Is that fascination, what he sees in his face?

Crowley gulps.

He doesn’t dare to ask. Doesn’t dare to hope.

Not yet.

“Shall we eat, now? And maybe you could play some more later?”

Crowley nods. “Sure. What’d you make?”

He barely registers a word after that, although he enjoys the meal and tells Aziraphale so, not that it is at all surprising how exquisite his cooking is. He can’t help to be distracted. His angel is sitting right there, still looking at him like he did something extraordinary, and his hand — his left hand is resting so close to him. It looks innocent enough that it may be a coincidence, but…

They’re free now.

They’re free, they saved the world, _their _world, and so Crowley just crosses the distance and grabs Aziraphale’s hand, and squeezes.

His angel’s grin goes even wider, and Crowley’s heart beats even faster, but they’re alright.

Later in the evening, after a sonata or two, Crowley will ask Azirphale what he thinks of his performance, and if he likes the answer, he may even ask for a kiss.

(He knows he’ll like the answer. And he knows Aziraphale will give him more than one.)

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell that the Romantic Era is one of my favourites? Chopin and Clara Schumann are my faves. Although Mozart and Beethoven hold very special places in my heart. I haven't tried to play Mozart in a while though. He and Liszt both frighten me!
> 
> Although to be honest I haven't played much of everything in a while--I haven't been in the best state of mind for it, though I crave for that catharsis. This comes close, though. Hopefully, this will work for you as much as it worked for me. Thanks for reading!


End file.
